


We Two Alone

by LadyRoxie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Close Quarters, Comfort, F/M, Jail, Tipsy Phryne, Undercover escapades, bottle episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: After an undercover operation goes a little sideways, Jack ends up in a jail cell next to a very tipsy lady detective.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One of *maybe* two contributions to this month's Trope Challenge. Not sure what this is, but here it is anyway. Merp. Let's say it takes place sometime during season 2 or 3. <3

“I dunno what you lots were playin' at, but you can cool your heels in here until morning, and we get this whole thing sorted.”

The big sergeant shoved Jack towards one of two cells, one meaty hand on the cuffs at Jack's back, the other on his shoulder. His nervous young constable seemed much less sure of where to put his own hands as he guided a certain lady detective towards the adjacent cell. 

Phryne wasn't making it easy for him. All of a sudden, she stopped dead, pivoting sharply so her chest was flush with his, and trailed her hand down the row of shining brass buttons on his coat.

“Are you _very_ sure you need t'do this, Constable....” She squinted, pulling her head back to make out the name on his uniform. “Const'ble Moore?” She swayed a little, her feet two-stepping slightly to regain her balance. 

“Moore... Like the Moors! Oh Jack – maybe his first name is Othello,” she giggled. 

Jack sighed as the cell locked behind him, then turned and presented his hands through the bars so the sergeant could remove the darbys. 

“Sergeant McConnell, you're making a mistake. If you'd just put the call in to Russell Street in Melbourne, I'm telling you we'd have this cleared up in ten minutes! Miss Fisher is in no condition to spend a night down here!”

McConnell shrugged as he walked over Phryne's door, through which young Moore had only just managed to coax the now humming Miss Fisher. 

“Well, you should have thought of that before you made such a mess of things. I'm off duty as of twenty minutes ago, with a hot dinner waiting at home, so no one's calling anyone until tomorrow. Whatever you two were doing in that joint, and whoever you are or are not, it's gonna wait till morning. Moore!” he barked at the younger man, who had managed to extricate himself from Phryne's wandering hands through the bars.

“Sir?”

“Toss these two some blankets. I'm off, you're on the desk.”

“Yes, sir.” Constable Moore couldn't help but remind Jack of Hugh Collins, and the thought gave him hope – maybe he'd be able to talk some sense into the lad once the spectre of his boorish boss was gone. 

It hadn't been, all things considered, the most solid of plans. They had known that an upstart gang from Portland had started smuggling cheap, low-grade whiskey out of the town and it was making its way to Melbourne. The police in Melbourne were getting frustrated with the lack of cooperation on the part of the local cops in clamping down on the trafficking, and Russell Street had begun to suspect someone on the force there might be mixed up in the gang, or at least on the take. 

Jack had been sent to do some undercover reconnaissance, and had orders not to make any contact with the Portland Police, or the gang themselves. He was simply to try to narrow down the source of the booze, and see if he could find the headquarters they were operating out of. Once established, Russell Street could send in a team and take down the gang, as well as any officers involved in the operation. 

Naturally, when he'd casually mentioned all of this to Phryne over a drink in her parlour, she'd decided they would be much more effective together. 

“I'll be the perfect cover!” she'd said delightedly. “You can't be hanging around bars on your own, you need a girl on your arm to help you blend in!”

Jack was fairly sure he put up an excellent and well-reasoned counterargument. He had logic, precedent and determination on his side. 

And three days later, he was sitting beside the Honourable Phryne Fisher as the train pulled out of Melbourne and rattled towards Portland. Her smile was triumphant, and just innocent enough that he couldn't mind very much. 

As promisingly as things had started out, they deteriorated quickly. They found the port-side bar that seemed to be the headquarters of the operation on their third try of the evening. Jack had been nursing his beer at each stop, determined to keep a clear head, but Phryne had insisted she had a constitution of a wrestler and was on her third drink. 

He'd had to admit, they looked the part, thank to Phryne's careful sartorial direction. Jack had swapped his fine three piece wool suit for a pair of worn trousers and a canvas waistcoat, a collarless shirt and a rough jacket in a kind of tweed that made the back of his neck itch. Phryne, somehow, managed to look both cheap and charming; a frothy dress in a shade of olive green floating around her, perhaps a shade too large for her slight frame, a gaudy gold scarf, and a fur shrug that had seen better days. Jack had never seen the dress before (not a surprise; he was sure she had a whole wing of the house devoted to unworn fashion) but couldn't deny it did the trick: she looked alluring and approachable and every bit the down-market moll. 

The charade had worked for the first part of the evening, but even Phryne had had to acknowledge that as soon as they stepped into the Outhaul Pub, they stuck out rather badly, in that they'd seemed to be the only patrons there not fitting the description Surly Dock Workers. But Jack had to be sure, and so they'd sidled up to the bar, ordered two drinks, and tried their best to look at home at a grimy table in the corner. 

Even this might have been alright, except the firewater the gang was selling as whiskey was so high proof and coarse, it could likely have taken the paint off Phryne's beloved Hispano in one swipe. Two cocktails in and Phryne was worse off than he'd ever seen her, and Jack had realized he needed to get her out of there. 

He had not expected to encounter a veritable wall of police just outside the pub doors. Evidently, the connection between the gang and the cops was more than a rumour, and someone at the bar hadn't liked them snooping around. 

Constable Moore tossed a ratty blanket on each of the two beds, and handed Jack a jug of water and two tin cups. He threw an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he clipped the keys to his belt and headed up the stone stairs. 

“Pooh.”

“Miss Fisher?” Jack turned away from the bars. She seemed to be fighting with the black and gold feather clip in her hair, and not winning.

“Pffft. Pooh!”

“Phryne are you alright?” The cells were dark, with only a single dim bulb near the stairs lighting the whole space, and Jack walked over to their shared bars to get a better look. 

“Can't...” She was standing close to the narrow cot against the far wall, her fingers tangled in her hair. She turned slowly on the spot, as if vaguely chasing the feather around the top of her head. 

“Phryne?”

“Hang'n, Imma get it off...”

“Stop spinning Phryne.”

“Hmm?” she said, still drifting in little circles towards the middle of the cell.

“ _Phryne_.”

She stopped suddenly, though her top half continued to sway slightly from side to side.

“What, _Jack_ ” she said, exaggerating the crack on the last sound of his name. “JACK. Ja-ack. Hm?”

He suppressed a smile, pulling his mouth down quickly into a more appropriate frown.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“You? Me?” She blinked wide-eyed at him, both hands still snarled in the feathers on her head.

“Phryne, you appear to be having some trouble taking off your.... thing.”

“Jaack,” she sang, swinging her hips as she walked towards him. The corners of his mouth twitched as he watched, knowing that in her mind, she probably looked every bit the seductive siren, when in reality she looked like a tall six-year-old with taffy stuck in her hair. It may not have been sophisticated, but he couldn't deny, it was adorable.

“You shd'know by now, s'not a “thing”, it's a fsacinator. A fancynator.” She'd reached the shared bars between them and tried to lean one elbow casually on the horizontal bar before it slipped several times and she gave up. The feather clip was now entangled in her fringe, and several feathers hung down in front of her eyes. Pouting, she tried to blow them back up, going slightly cross-eyed in the process. 

Jack took pity.

“A fascinator, Miss Fisher?”

“Yes. Yes! I knew y'had it in you, s'pector.”

“Phryne.”

“Mhmm?”

“Are you comfortable?”

She stilled her hands and peered at him through the drooping feathers. He was sure she was going to come back with a quip in the affirmative, but after a longer than expected pause, she sighed and shook her head. 

“Can I help?” 

“Yes'please. I got it tangled.”

Jack laughed softly. “Yes, I see that. Hold still, and turn a bit.” He reached through the bars and brought his hands to the snarl, realizing that one of the feathers had become caught in her ring. Her fingers were cold, and the ring slipped off easily. Phryne lowered her hands once she realized they were free, and stood still as he worked to extricate the clip. Jack concentrated on not pulling her hair as he fiddled, and became aware that Phryne was humming again, her hips starting to sway gently from side to side.

“Lovely tune, Miss Fisher, but hold still.”

“Mmmm.” 

“Do I know it?” Jack pushed his tongue against his top teeth and frowned, trying to free a lock of hair from the grip of the clasp.

Phryne's eyes had closed and she smiled. “Nope, because...” she said, drawing out the last word. “I made it up!”

“I see. Very nice.”

“I invented it, Jack. S'brand new and mine.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled down at her, his eyes still on his work.

“I'm clever.” She fluttered her eyelashes and looked up at him, and Jack felt his heart speed up.

“Yes, Miss Fisher, I'd have to say you are. You are also,” said Jack, with a final little tug, “Free of this thi- _fascinator_. Though I can't say it fared too well in the ordeal.”

He held it up between them on his side of the bars, feeling somehow that he'd liberated both the ornament and himself just in time. The fascinator now resembled not so much an elegant headpiece as a bedraggled bit of avian carnage. 

“Oh phooey,”she said, “I liked that one.” 

“I don't think it stood a chance, I'm afraid.”

“Pffft,” she shrugged, suddenly waiving one hand in the air and twirling, “I have more.” She stopped suddenly. “Jack. I have SO MANY.”

“I had actually noticed, yes.”

“Feathers and frippery and...” She swooshed around the cell as if she were in a ball gown. Only when her top half spun at a slightly different speed than her lower did she falter, plopping to the cement floor in an awkward heap. 

“Oh for heaven's...Phryne?” Jack reached out for the bars.

“Ow,” she said softly. Her head flopped forward onto her chest and she rubbed her knees. 

“Alright, look. You are in no shape to be singing and dancing.” Jack's eyes scanned the filthy space and came to rest on the cot against the far wall. 

“FANS.”

“I beg your pardon?” In spite of himself, he had a somewhat Pavlovian response to her last word.

“I w's _going_ to say, FANS. Feathers and flippy...flippery....something else, and _fans_. I _like_ them. Remember my fan dance, Jack? All pink and...pink?”

Phryne turned her eyes up to him with at look that he knew was likely aiming for sultry and made it somewhere between sweet and sleepy.

Jack smirked, his eyes twinkling. “I do, Miss Fisher. I seem to recall telling you it thought it might be a viable second career. But what say we put the dancing on hold for the night and get you more comfortable?”

He regretted his choice of words more or less the moment he said them.

“Mmmm,” hummed Phryne, awkwardly rising from the floor and adjusting her dress. “I like the sound f'that... _that_...” she corrected. “You should get crumfordable too, Jack. I can help you. I'm vrry good at clothes.”

Phryne swayed over to where Jack stood, her fingers reaching out to his chest. When she reached the bars between them, she seemed surprised. She licked her lips and frowned, flicking one with a fingernail.

“Aww...., but....” She reached both hands through the bars and settled them on the V of his canvas waistcoat before he gently grasped her wrists.

“Phryne, it's very late, and you're very drunk. Let's get some sleep, alright?” 

She stilled her hands and looked up at him, and he had to remind himself forcefully that this was not the time to consider making or receiving advances from Phryne Fisher. But for a few moments, her eyes were so unguarded and hopeful, part of him wondered if it would be the worst thing. 

_Of course it would be the worst thing, Robinson you utter idiot._

“Why are you over there, Inspes... Inspercter...Ins... Jack?” Her brow furrowed adorably and she let her hands be guided by his to rest on the bars.

“Because, Phryne,” he said, taking a small step back and smoothing down his lapels. “They put us in separate cells. And it doesn't appear there is much we can do about getting out of here until morning, so we might as well try to get some sleep.” He looked again over at the metal-framed bed in the far corner. He didn't like the idea of her sleeping so far from where he could keep an eye on her in her current condition.

“Do you think you could drag that cot over here, beside the bars? It doesn't look like it's bolted down.”

Phryne swivelled and looked at the bed for a moment and then turned back to Jack. 

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Because, if you're sick in the night it's better you're not way over there.” Jack tried to sound pragmatic.

“Oh horsefeathers. I'm just... pffft.” Phryne blinked very slowly and waved her hands in the air. “I'm just tipsy is all. You know I can hold my liquor, Jack Robins.....Jack...What _is_ your middle name, Jack?”

“Aha. Right. Bedtime.” Jack brought his hands to his hips, and tried very hard not to laugh.

“Bedtime? _Bedtime_?? All th'stime, and I nevr knew that? That is the best bloomin' middle name I've ev'r heard of!”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Phryne...”

“Oh no, my lovely stuffly Detective 'spector, I like that. _Jack Bedtime Robinson_...” She sidled closer to the bars again, draping herself against them. "S' _promising_..." 

“Miss Fisher,”

“Phry-ne...” she purred.

_For God sake, Robinson, you commanded a drug raid last week. Thugs. Police officers. Weaponry. Get it together._

He stood as tall as he could, and tried to marshal his features into some resembling convincing authority. “Miss Fisher, fetch the bed.” 

Phryne pouted for a moment, then grinned, which worried him.

“Yes, sir!” She saluted, then sashayed over to the bed and grabbed the foot bar, flinging her golden scarf over her shoulder first. It wasn't heavy, and she easily dragged it across the floor. When it was flush with the bars between the cells, she looked up at Jack, and threw her arms above her head in triumph. 

Jack allowed himself a little smile. 

“You're very good. Now -”

“I am.”

“Pardon?”

“I am, Jack. _Very_ good.” Phryne climbed onto the bed, walking on her knees towards him. She stretched her hands up the bars and leaned forward, looking up at him through thick lashes. 

Jack swallowed thickly. Her fur coat was nowhere to be seen, and the flimsy dress she wore hid little. And apparently it was cold in the cells, when one wasn't wearing a heavy wool jacket and trousers. Had she been sober, there is no way she'd have missed his faltering glance at her thinly veiled and evidently unbound breasts, but he hoped to high heaven her current condition left her wits a little dulled. He determinedly focused on her eyes.

“Miss Fisher, you are to get into this bed, at once, and under the blanket. For _sleep_.” He added quickly, seeing her eyes start to tease. “I will be over there, on the other cot, likely not sleeping. And, Phryne, if you're unwell, please say something.”

Phryne sank down so her bottom rested on her heels, and sighed. She seemed to be weighing something but appeared to come to the conclusion that she might as well give in. 

Shrugging dramatically, she swung her legs away from the bars to dangle them over the edge of the bed. She slipped off her heels, not bothering with the buckles, and tossed them in a high arc into the centre of the cell where they landed with a 'plop'.

Jack had just been examining his own bed for possible many-legged bedmates, when he glanced over at Phryne, whose dress was now halfway over her head. 

“No!” he yelled. “I mean, Phr- Miss Fisher, it's far too.... erm, cold in here.” Jack knew he was stammering, but couldn't seem to get his brain to talk civilly to his mouth. He covered his eyes hastily with his hand, and then thought better and turned back around. 

“Hmm?” came the sleepy reply from the other cell.

“Clothes _on_ , Miss Fisher. This is not your boudoir. In fact, I'm going to give you my coat, as well.” Jack started to shrug out of his jacket, trying very hard not to replay the image he'd just had imprinted on his eyes. 

_White stockings, seams sweetly askew, white garter with pink suspenders, and little pink... had they been roses on the clips? Oh for Pete's sake, Robinson, get a grip..._

Jack realized his eyes were screwed shut even though he was facing the wall. There was a rustle of movement behind him.

“Are you decent, Miss Fisher?” he called, dreading the answer. Traitorously, he imagined turning around and seeing the rest of the image, dress discarded. 

“Phryne? Are you... clothed?”

Finally he heard a sigh, and a murmur which might have been 'yes'. 

He tentatively turned around, keeping one hand near his face in case of emergency, and couldn't help a tilted grin as he took in the sight. 

Phryne had indeed (or he assumed, since he didn't it in the pile with her shoes) replaced her dress, and had slipped in between the coarse sheets of the cot. She was curled up on her side, her face to him, her eyes already closed. 

Jack felt a little breath knocked out of him, like he'd been thumped a little too hard in the chest. 

“That's... good. Ah,” He looked down at the coat in his hands. “You might be cold. I'll just...” He moved to the bars, catching a hint of her perfume as he reached the edge of her cot. She didn't stir, and he wondered if she was still conscious. 

“Here,” he whispered, mostly to fill the silence with something other than his thoughts. “I can...” He pushed the bulk of the coat through the bars, careful not to let it fall. Holding it there with one hand, the other stuck through the bars further down, he flicked the heavy wool over her, crouching down to smooth out the folds. 

He should get back to his own bed, he knew. His large hands rested on her mattress, and he sat perfectly motionless, his eyes tracing over her face: the long black lashes laying against her cheek, the red, slightly parted lips. If he stayed as still as she was, maybe this was no more than a moment; a single instant. His breathing was shallow and he felt like even the particles in the air had stilled around them. 

As he took in her hands, curled together just under her chin, and the pale skin of her chest, he felt a shiver like tiny points of gold break out over his own arms and up his neck, and down his back. 

But he wasn't aroused; he was disarmed.

He'd mostly mastered the trick of withstanding her proximity when it was a shower of sparks, when she was lit up and glossy and fierce. It wasn't easy, but it was familiar. And he had his defences, some of which came more naturally than others: his position, his identity, his own home. But seeing her like this, when all of those things had been left behind, was an ambush he hadn't seen coming. All he had left was his morality, and it seemed a slippery thing.

It wasn't that he would ever dream of doing anything, here, now, with her so clearly compromised; the thought never actually occurred. The truth was, it was worse. This wasn't about lust; it was about love. 

He should get back to his own bed. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and he couldn't look away.

“I'm sorry,” he managed, then cleared the candour from his voice. “Sleep.” He pulled his arms back to his side, hoping she hadn't realized his hands had been close enough to feel her warmth through the thin blanket where his coat didn't reach. Jack stood and moved back to the far wall, sitting down heavily on his cot. 

Sometime later, her voice reached through the silence.

“Jack?” 

“I'm here.”

“Can you...”

He waited, wondering if she was feeling ill.

“Can you come here?” Her eyes glowed in the low light.

Jack crossed the floor in a few strides and crouched close to the bars. 

“I feel... strange. Wobbly.” Phryne closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. A slim hand came up over her shoulder, and Jack realized she was trying to draw the collar of his coat further up around her neck. He reached forward and did so, his breath halting a little as his fingers brushed both her hand and her cheek.

Phryne's eyes opened, and she lay still, watching his face.

For the first time, Jack was grateful for the iron bars. 

He cleared his throat softly and drew back his hand, aware as he did it that it was the perfect opposite of the action he wished he could take. 

“Better?” he asked, steadying himself, still eye-level with her.

She nodded, but didn't release his gaze. Finally he stood, and she raised her head, wincing for a moment but persisting.

“Wait...” She licked dry lips, and swallowed. “Can you... stay?”

Jack gave a wry smile.

“I can't very well go anywhere else, now, can I? I'll be just over there.” He gestured at his own cot.

Phryne let her head fall to the flat pillow. She rolled partway onto her back, her fingers coming up to fiddle with the edge of his coat's collar. 

“Could you... be closer?” She met his eyes. She no longer looked loopy and drunk, only tired and small, and somewhat lost, which were at least two adjectives he wasn't often able to attribute to Phryne Fisher. The worst of the booze had worn off, but it had left her feeling shaky, and the surroundings weren’t helping any. He studied her face, and found himself nodding.

Without a word (what was he supposed to say? _No? It's not wise? I'd love nothing more?_ ), Jack dragged his own bed into the middle of the cells, the metal feet grating against the floor. He lined it up beside the bars, and stopped. 

Phryne seemed to have fallen back asleep, one hand on her chest, the other nestled into her temple. All he could think was that as shockingly beautiful as she was the Honourable Miss Fisher, she was twice that now. It was all part of the same being, the strength and the openness; the confidence and the candour; the glamour and this, when she was raw, vulnerable, and every bit as much Phryne Fisher. 

Jack lay down on top of his threadbare blanket. He figured it must be past two now, and the morning shift likely started at 7, so they had a few more hours to wait. He hoped she'd sleep, hoped she wouldn't feel too poorly in the morning. He bent one arm up behind his head and closed his eyes. 

He wasn't a fool; he knew he was done in. But he'd made a kind of strange peace with that, come what may. He'd had the storybook once, and it hadn't ended the way he'd thought it would. Now, he had something else, something that may never be more than this, but he had a feeling that still made him luckier than most. And if even it didn't last? Nothing had a guarantee. His whole life had taught him that. 

He might have dozed, but not well. When he opened his eyes, there was no hint of dawn in the sky outside the tiny high window near the stairwell. He shifted, wincing at the creak from the bed, and turned to look at Phryne. She'd curled back onto her side in her sleep, and now lay looking at him, mirroring him perfectly. 

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Did I wake you?” His own voice was barely above a whisper, though there was no one else to disturb.

She shook her head. 

“You alright?”

She nodded. “Little less spinny.”

He smiled. “Guess we shouldn't bring any of that particular vintage back with us.”

She laughed softly and closed her eyes for a moment. 

“Couple of hours left till morning,” said Jack. “Try to get some more sleep.”

He watched her face through the bars, not a foot away from his own. Her lipstick was gone, and the kohl around her eyes was smudged, but she was clear eyed, and she was beautiful.

“Maybe,” she said. “Have you slept?”

“Not really,” he said. She gave him a tiny scowl that meant, “ _daft man, you need it too_ ”, and he gave her a familiar smirk.

Phryne's gaze moved from his face to the large hand that rested on the blanket in front of him, just next to the bars. “I'm sorry it got so messy.”

Jack froze imperceptibly.

“Tonight?” 

She nodded, still looking at his hand. “The bar. The raid. I know this is not how you wanted the night to end.” 

Jack suddenly realized he hadn't thought about the case in hours. And if he had to answer the question honestly, well... He couldn't do that. 

“It's alright. We found it, and they'll send a team in to get to the bottom of it,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He paused. “I don't think we did much damage.”

“Good,” she said. One pale hand slid forward on the blanket towards his, her small wrist slipping easily thought the bars. “I would hate to have done anything to ruin something... important.” 

Phryne touched her fingertips to his, gathering her fingers to delicately trace over each nail. He stayed perfectly still and let her, aware that their breathing had fallen in time with each other. Her face was soft, her naked lips slightly parted, her eyes still focused on their hands. 

_She looks like this when she wakes_ , he thought, and the thought was like a punch to his chest. 

Finally, she curled her hand under his, and snuggled down into the blankets. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, and when he was sure she was asleep, he let his thumb stroke back and forth across her palm.

“No harm done, Miss Fisher. None at all,” he whispered.

As he closed his eyes and stilled his hand, he heard it, no more than a breath from inches away.

“ _Good_.”


End file.
